


a niche in his chest

by pleurer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Orgasm, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Rape Recovery, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, peter is 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/pseuds/pleurer
Summary: "I know everything about you, Peter. I know exactly how to break you, and—” Tony pauses to trail a cold metal finger down Peter’s trembling jaw— “how pretty you look when you cry.”In an effort to bring Tony back, Peter summons an alternate Iron Man from the wrong universe, and gets what he wanted in the worst way.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Superior Iron Man/Peter Parker, Superior Iron Man/Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 383
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearnedFoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/gifts).



> LF, your prompts were amaaazing. I wanted to write you all the things, but I hope this will suffice! 
> 
> Set post-Endgame in a slight canon divergence where Tony lives but is in a coma, and he and Pepper split up sometime before the blip.
> 
> Originally posted anonymously on 12/14. Re-dated for author reveals.

“He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest  
where a heart would fit perfectly  
and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place—  
well then, game over.”

— _Richard Siken, Crush_

──────

Queens isn’t the same as it was when Peter left it. Half the kids at his school are five years older than they used to be. Delmar’s disappeared after its owner did, now renovated into a convenience store— Peter can only assume Mr. Delmar found work somewhere else upon his return. All things considered, Peter would like to say that New York was on its road to recovery, rebuilding all that it had lost. Instead, it feels more like the city is stuck in limbo, holding its breath in trepidation. Waiting for the man who saved them to lead them into a new dawn. Waiting for Iron Man to wake up.

There are news channels dedicated to monitoring Tony Stark’s health status. They’ve got Dr. Banner on deck, and even Princess Shuri from Wakanda. They were hopeful at first that Mr. Stark would make it, but eventually Shuri had to return to her home country, and two months later they were still stuck where they’d begun. All this, of course, Peter hears secondhand. Despite his semi-personal relationship with Mr. Stark, his temporary knighting as an Avenger had taken place in space right before he died, and the last thing anybody has time to do is to update a sixteen-year-old from Queens. All he can do is listen as the reporters talk on the air about a man they never knew— a man whose kindness and heroism they only barely scratched the surface of— and list possible replacements in case Iron Man doesn’t make it. As soon as he hears the name _Spider-Man_ being thrown around, Peter turns off the television and doesn’t turn it back on.

During the days that pass, Peter puts up a pretty good facade of normalcy. He rejoins the Decathlon team, and hangs out with Ned and MJ. Some nights, heads out on patrol. May knows, of course, about Spider-Man. But the fact that Peter had died sneaking off into space was still fresh in her mind. They’d struck a bargain that he’d go out no more than twice a week, and even though the crime rate is skyrocketing along with the rebirth of half the universe— even though Peter’s neighborhood needs him— May needs him, too. Peter doesn’t have the heart to disobey her.

So during those nights when he’s not catching the neighbourhood pickpockets and car thieves, he finds himself sneaking back in through Mr. Stark’s window.

Five years ago, Mr. Stark had given him unrestricted access to Stark Tower, which he'd bought back and re-renovated after a change of heart. Along with that, he'd trusted that Peter wouldn’t abuse his privilege for anything other than their bi-weekly lab sessions. Five years ago, the lighthearted banter and thrill of innovation that he could always find at Mr. Stark’s lab meant that Wednesdays were always Peter’s favourite day of the week. 

Today’s a Wednesday, too. It seems fitting.

Peter takes a moment to stand there by Mr. Stark’s side, watching the heart monitor beeping at a steady rate, watching the miniscule rise and fall of Mr. Stark’s chest under the white sheets. White was the wrong colour. Mr. Stark was red and gold, all confident bravado and sideways smiles, a steady hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter hates nothing more than seeing Mr. Stark like this, face mottled and singed with the scars of his sacrifice, lying on a bed too big for his motionless body, connected to life by needles and tubes. 

Peter is pretty sure that Pepper sees him on the footage of Mr. Stark’s room every night. That she only hasn’t said anything because she doesn’t have time to expend the emotional effort in comforting someone else when she’s still coming to terms with her own loss. Peter knows that they split up during the five years, but he doesn’t doubt that she loves him— if not in the way she used to, he’s sure she still loves him as a person. It must be hard for her. At first, he’d tried telling her not to accept it as a loss, that he was sure Mr. Stark would make it through. But she hadn’t listened. She’d shook her head and looked sadly at him and said, “Peter, you're a good kid. But there are some things even superheroes can’t fix.”

Peter doesn’t blame her. In hindsight, it was a reasonable assumption to make. If you’d given up on Tony Stark coming back, then of course there were other things to focus on, like rebuilding Stark Industries (if you were Pepper) and helping everyone who’d been displaced (May) and fixing the world (whoever was going to be the next Tony Stark, if anyone could possibly fill his shoes). 

It didn’t stop Peter from being heartbroken. He’d thought to himself, _if only Mr. Stark was here, he’d know what to do—_ and that was the problem.

But it was also the solution.

So Peter pulled relentless all-nighters, abusing his access to FRIDAY to search for any form of back-up that Tony might’ve made of his own brain— any alternate version of Tony that could tell him what to do. And then, when science failed him, he turned to Dr. Strange’s library, using the pretense of “conducting research for a History project” to get his hands on every spellbook he possibly could. Which led him to figure out eventually that yes, there was a multiverse— and yes, there was at least one other universe out there where Tony was still alive.

It took two months to get the preparations in order, but now, Peter’s finally ready.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” says Peter with a small smile to the sleeping figure in front of him. “Sorry I kept you waiting so long.”

He calls out for FRIDAY, and replaces the live camera footage of this room with a pre-recorded tape of Peter sitting next to Mr. Stark’s bed. Nobody needs to see what comes next. Not until Peter is a hundred percent sure that it’ll work, anyway. He doesn’t need to be chewed out and banned from visiting Mr. Stark for a failed experiment. But he also knows that he needs to try this, or he’ll never be able to live with himself.

Huffing out a shaky breath, Peter opens the book he stole from Dr. Strange’s library, chants the ancient spell, and opens the portal.

──────

He almost doesn’t expect it to work. When Mr. Stark materializes in front of him, he thinks he’s dreaming. He feels fourteen again, with his childhood idol sauntering into his bedroom, except that this time they're in Mr. Stark's own home.

"You called?" says Mr. Stark. And then he whistles lowly. "Hey, pretty boy. What's your name?"

"I, um." Peter extends a hand. "Hey. I'm Peter. Um, Spider-Man, actually. I'm kind of an Avenger, and I called because I need your help with something." He ignores the twist in his gut at being called a pet name. This version of Mr. Stark likely doesn't know he's only sixteen. He'll tell him later, shatter the illusion eventually. For now, he's feeling a little greedy. Can you blame him? Mr. Stark is right there, looking handsome as all hell, just like Peter's version of Mr. Stark. The only difference is that his suit is a light silvery white and blue, and his eyes, too, are an icy, piercing shade of blue. Peter feels like he could cry right now, a mix of relief and familiar affection overwhelming him completely. 

"An Avenger, huh?" The blue-eyed Mr. Stark quirks a friendly smile. "I'd be happy to help. Fill me in on the details, would you? I just came from another universe. Long journey." He cracks his neck as he says it, and Peter doesn't understand why the gesture is as attractive as it is. Whatever. This isn't the time for those thoughts, and besides, his feelings are reserved for the Mr. Stark he wants to bring back, not any of his alternate-universe clones. No matter how hot they are. He's got to focus on the mission at hand.

So he tells Mr. Stark everything. The fight against Thanos, the Blip, the way Mr. Stark so nobly sacrificed his life, a selfless gesture that Peter had the gall to selfishly want to undo. And how that ended up with Mr. Stark here, clinging to the edge of life, hooked up to tubes and awaiting a fate everyone thought was inevitable.

As he talked about it, blinking back tears, there was a knowing look on the face of Mr. Stark, and Peter wondered if his feelings were obvious. It would be ironic if this version of Mr. Stark that he'd met five minutes ago figured out his best-kept secret when the real Mr. Stark hadn't known for years. 

"And so," Peter finishes off, "That's why I need your help."

"I got you, kid," he says, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder and Peter has to bite his lip to keep from melting into the touch. It's reassuring and familiar, exactly what he craved. “I get it. You want to replace the old model with the new one. I'm more than happy to fill his shoes for you.” Despite the familiar warmth of his voice, his eyes glint in that unfamiliar shade of icy blue. The subtle difference makes him strikingly handsome, but in a different way— whereas Mr. Stark feels like warmth and trust and joy, this version feels cool and almost aloof. Still, he trusts Mr. Stark, and that extends to any version of him.

“Oh, no, that's not what I had in mind,” says Peter honestly. “I— I was actually hoping you could figure out how to help me bring him back.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Stark, sounding pleasantly surprised. His eyes go soft at the edges, and he puts a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You went through all that just for him? He’s got to be pretty damn lucky to have landed a catch like you.”

“Oh, no,” Peter hurriedly denies, already feeling his face flush beet red. So he _had_ been too obvious, then. “I, um— I’m not his— it’s not like that.”

“Really?” says Mr. Stark, voice tinged with disappointment. He drops the hand, though. “Well, I guess that makes sense. You’re a long way out of his league. My league— our leagues.”

Peter’s face is so hot, it might evaporate. “No, no, not that, either! He’s just— Mr. Stark’s not into me like that.”

Mr. Stark laughs, but not maliciously. His eyes twinkle. “So he could have you if he asked, huh? I guess some idiots are too blind to see what’s in front of them. Even if that idiot is technically me. Is that a self-compliment, or a self-diss? I don't know, you decide. But hey, don’t you worry, kid. I’ll get him back for you.” He places a hand on Peter’s back, and this time Peter lets himself melt into his touch for a second before pulling himself together.

“Sorry,” says Peter. He clears his throat. Well, okay, it’s not the end of the world if an alternate universe version of Mr. Stark knows that Peter is in love with him. Peter will swear him to secrecy, and then he’ll just go right back to the universe he came from. What’s the harm? 

“It’s fine, hon. I remember what it’s like. Being a teenager with a crush.” Mr. Stark shrugs. Peter wants to tell him to drop the _hon,_ because it’s not helping, but Mr. Stark is already doing Peter a huge favour here, so he doesn’t. “Anyway, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Without even saying or pressing anything, a piece of his suit detaches in one fluid motion from his arm, just like liquid. It morphs into a small frame, and within that frame is a holo-screen. The rest of the suit molds itself back into shape perfectly like nothing happened.

"Whoa. Is that a symbiotic suit?" says Peter.

"Smart kid," says Mr. Stark, and Peter has to bite his lip to keep from preening at the praise. "That's exactly what it is. The endo-sym suit responds to me on a biological level. None of that _hey Siri_ shit. It knows what I want when I want it."

"That's _so cool,"_ says Peter, and then reels himself back before he can get too starry-eyed. "Sorry, I just— it's really cool, Mr. Stark. I'm just really glad you're here." 

"Hey, kid, it's fine," says Mr. Stark with a jovial smile. "And call me Tony, yeah? It's just the two of us here, and we're partners now, so we might as well ditch the formalities." 

"Oh. Yeah. Okay. Tony." The name sounds foreign on Peter's tongue. He'd called Mr. Stark that once before, when Mr. Stark was falling unconscious, eyes glazed over with exhaustion, and Peter clutched at him like a lifeline. It was strange to think that he was now going to bring Mr. Stark back, with the other Mr. Stark— with Tony's help.

──────

It turns out that, of all the alternate-universe people that Peter could’ve summoned, Peter hit jackpot. Tony has just developed something called Extremis 3.0, and he’s certain that it can cure the Mr. Stark in Peter's universe. In fact, Tony has already provided the drug to the people of alternate-universe San Francisco, curing them of their ailments and making them better and stronger. 

“Wouldn’t that create some problems with crime and stuff, if it goes unchecked?” says Peter inquiringly. “I mean, it’s a good idea, and it sounds like a good cause, but I feel like it’d cause a lot of chaos. What if people get greedy for more? What if they use their powers for bad things?”

Tony grins. “Good questions, kid. You’re a bright one, I can just tell. I’ve got drones watching the city at all times, though, and I’ve deployed remote-controlled suits of armour to keep everybody in check if they step out of line.”

“Hm,” says Peter, chewing on that for a moment. If it was anybody other than Tony, Peter would definitely be skeptical— it sounded like a one-way ticket to dystopia. But Tony was a hero, always trying to do right by everybody. Peter was sure he had more than enough contingencies in place for when things went wrong. And in any case, what was important was that it was a tried-and-true drug that could cure Peter’s version of Mr. Stark. Peter’s heart begins to pound with the realization that this is all _happening—_ that any minute now, Mr. Stark could blink his eyes open and sit up in that bed, and bring the cold, white, lifeless room to life again. Bring the joy of his presence back into the world, and back into Peter’s life. 

“Extremis is pretty much all set to go. I’ve just got to look into the biology of the humans in this universe, make sure it all matches up and that the drug is compatible. It’ll take fifteen, twenty minutes tops.” 

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” says Peter. Twenty minutes is nothing compared to the agony that was two months without Mr. Stark. “I’ll help you get set up at Mr. Stark’s workdesk.”

Tony takes a seat in his leather chair, looking so perfectly at home there that Peter’s heart tugs in his chest. He pulls up holo-screens with text and images too small for Peter to decipher from this distance. Peter wonders if it’s okay to come closer, but then remembers that he doesn’t have the same rapport with this alternate version of his mentor, who’s never had him around during lab sessions. 

“Getting a bit thirsty while I work,” says Tony, eyes still trained on the screen. “Fetch me a glass of whiskey, will you, kid?” 

When Peter doesn’t immediately respond, Tony tosses an irritated look over his shoulder. “What’s the holdup?”

“Nothing. It’s just— Mr. Stark doesn’t drink,” says Peter. 

Tony quirks an eyebrow up, looking unimpressed. “Well, Mr. High Horse, he and I are different people. I’m going to need _something_ to help take the edge off. This is a big project, you know. Got a lot riding on my shoulders.”

“Okay,” says Peter, ducking into the kitchen obediently. As he fetches a bottle from the cupboard, the tendrils of doubt start to wrap around his mind, but he pushes them aside. There are a lot of reasons for somebody to drink. It’s not necessarily a red flag. Hell, Peter himself drank more than he should have, when he first saw on the news that everyone believed Iron Man was going to die.

When Peter passes the glass to Tony, their fingers brush together, and Tony lets the touch linger for a beat longer than he needs to. “Thanks, sweetheart,” says Tony, voice light and yet heavy with meaning that doesn’t go over Peter’s head. He keeps his eyes on Peter as he drinks it down, the sound of the ice clinking against the glass sending a jolt down Peter’s spine. A strange feeling settles in Peter’s stomach, but he pulls his hand away. They’ve got a mission, and an important one at that. 

“Is there anything I can help with, Mr. Stark— Tony?” he asks.

“Nope,” says Tony. “I’m good. This should be almost done— ah, _there_ it is. _Now_ I’ve got everything.” He stands up off his chair. “Come on, kid. We’re going to get him back.”

Peter follows the blue-eyed, valiantly grinning Tony to the room where Mr. Stark lies, breathing soft and slow, drowning in the sheets. The heart monitor beeps steadily. Peter kneels down next to him, blinks back tears, and takes his good hand— the one not scarred by his sacrifice— and says, “We did it, Mr. Stark. We _really_ won, this time.” 

Tony, standing next to Peter, pets a hand through his hair. “Good boy,” he says. “You’re _so_ good, aren’t you, Peter?” There’s a strange undertone to his voice— almost like he _knows_ just what those words do to Peter. Still, he ignores it and focuses on watching as Tony injects his real self with a dose of Extremis. He watches as the drug slowly empties out through the syringe. He waits, heart pounding in his ears.

A few minutes pass. He looks back at the Tony that stands beside him. He looks bored. 

“Is it working?” says Peter.

“It should. I made it, and I don’t make mistakes,” says Tony. It’s not the usual self-deprecating, jokey narcissism that Mr. Stark would sometimes deploy. This Tony sounds detached and disinterested. “I’ve never tried it with somebody this close to dying, so it could take a while to kick in. In the meantime, Pete, why don’t you and I have some fun?”

Peter has to admit, he’s a little flustered as he walks back to the office with Tony. It feels like everything Tony is saying is specifically designed to embarrass him. Could it be that Tony is— actually _flirting_ with Peter, in ways that Mr. Stark never did? In a selfish way, Peter almost hopes so. Because then, even when this one inevitably goes back to his home universe, Peter will always have the memory that at least one Mr. Stark out there was attracted to him.

Peter clears his throat. He can’t get ahead of himself— it’s possible that this is just how Tony talks to everybody. That he’s not actually _interested_ in Peter. In that case, he’s got to clear up the misunderstanding as soon as he can. “Um, what— what were you thinking of?”

“You could blow me from under the workdesk.”

See, this is exactly the kind of thing the _real_ Tony wouldn’t say. Peter wonders briefly if he'd accidentally summoned a Tony from the universe of his favourite wet dream.

“I’m sorry, what?” is all he can manage to stutter.

“Or would you prefer it if I bent you over this table and fucked you, like the whore that you are? Took what I wanted— what I deserved— and what he was too much of a coward to take?”

Mr. Stark wouldn’t say that. It didn’t matter whether Peter had fantasized about it or not— the real Mr. Stark would _never._ In his voice, there’s an underlying hint of something that Peter finally recognizes as dangerous. Peter’s pulse races, like a rabbit under the preying eyes of a wolf. He takes a few steps back. “Mr. Stark?” he says, full of trepidation. “What’s— what’s gotten into you?”

“Oh, kid,” says Tony, eyes glinting coldly as he steps towards Peter, and only then does it hit Peter that this is really, truly not Mr. Stark. “You’re so _trusting._ You’d believe everything that I say, wouldn’t you, so long as we shared the same face?”

Peter’s throat tightens. His fists clench as his fight-or-flight instinct activates. The darkness of the room surrounds him, the only light source being the heart monitor and the chilling blue glow of the endo-sym suit. “What the hell did you _do_ to him?” Peter demands, voice coming out shakier than he intends. 

“Extremis. Like I told you. But you didn’t _really_ think I’d cure him for you without taking anything in return, did you?” He laughs in Peter’s face, breath smelling of alcohol. “That’s not why I’m here. I couldn’t give a damn about some idiot who had all my good looks— all my money— and wasted it all on being some sorry excuse for a _hero_.”

Peter doesn’t think before he charges. He flips his wrists out, preparing to attack with the web shooters. But before Peter can act, the endo-sym suit shoots out a tendril of cold, hard metal that wraps around Peter’s throat and knocks him backwards into the wall so hard it leaves a dent. Peter thinks, wryly, that he should take back what he said earlier about the endo-sym suit being cool. His head throbs with pain, and his vision swims for a moment before refocusing on Tony, who’s now sauntering leisurely towards him. 

“What—” Peter tries to speak while struggling against the metal that binds his throat. It comes out as a rasp. Tony stops right in front of him, and releases more slivers of silver-white metal that creep up his sides. With slowly weakening hands, Peter claws at the metal that’s slowly starting to encapsulate his body. He shivers, against his will, and chokes out, “What do you want from me?”

“Still haven’t figured it out?” says Tony, in a long, slow drawl, devoid of emotion. “I don’t care about _him._ What I _do_ care about, what you’ve so generously given me, is a brand new plaything.” He punctuates his sentence with a horrible laugh that makes Peter’s insides turn. “You thought I was working on Extremis, but I was only looking through everything there is to see in Tony’s database— and he’s got a _lot_ of information on you. I know everything about you, Peter. I know exactly how to break you, and—” he pauses to trail a cold metal finger down Peter’s trembling jaw— “how _pretty_ you look when you cry.”


	2. Chapter 2

“But monsters are always hungry, darling,  
and they’re only a few steps behind you,  
finding the flaw, the poor weld,  
the place where we weren’t stitched up quite right.”

_— Richard Siken, Crush_

──────

“Why should I believe you?" says Peter shakily, even as the tendrils of the suit tear off his suit in chunks and begin to caress him, clinical and cold. "You could've injected him with something else. You lied about everything else. You could be lying about this too.”

Tony shrugs. “I could be. But you’re not going to take that chance. Any chance that your precious Mr. Stark could be alive— you’ll take it. Remember, Peter? I know everything about you.”

Peter hates that he’s right. His best bet— his only bet— at keeping Mr. Stark alive is this perverse sociopath that wears Mr. Stark’s face. If Peter wants to win the game, he’s got no other choice but to play by these rules.

"So, how old are you again?"   
  
"You know how old I am." 

"Sweet sixteen," says Tony with a laugh. "Oh, when I was your age, I was sleeping with guys my age, too. Look at you, following in my footsteps. Didn't you always want to be the next Iron Man?"

Peter grits his teeth. He knows he's being baited, but even so, he grunts out a reply. "You don't deserve the title of Iron Man."

"Don't I? Look who's got the upper hand, here." As he says it, the fluid extra limb of the endo-sym suit wraps around Peter's now exposed cock, and twists. At the same time, Tony draws closer and presses an open-mouthed kiss, filthy and hot, against Peter's neck. It's too much. Peter gasps out a moan, his traitorous cock letting out a spurt of precome. He hates it. Hates that his body is reacting to the stimuli— hates that, in any other scenario, he’d want this, and his body knows it. His brain knows it’s not really Mr. Stark— that by reacting at all, Peter is only giving this sick, twisted version of Tony what he _wants._ But his body doesn’t know better. Every touch might as well be Mr. Stark’s touch, and every brush of his beard along the underside of Peter’s jaw only makes his dick twitch and leak with unwanted precome.

“How long do you think it’ll take him to wake up, hm?" Tony says into his skin. "I bet he’d love it, seeing you. Or maybe he’d be so disgusted he’d never look at you again. You’d deserve it, too. Look at you, dripping wet already like the filthy slut you are.”

The suit jerks harder on Peter's cock so that it's almost painful. Peter whines, and then instantly bites down on his lip, hating how fucking _easy_ he is, giving exactly the reactions that Tony wants. He tries to focus on his senses, reel them back in, stop feeling so much of everything, but he can't. Everything is all jumbled up, the anger and the hatred and the shame and guilt. Mr. Stark is only a room away, and he could wake up at any second and see the two of them, just like this.  
  
Tony bites down on Peter's shoulder blade and Peter _whimpers,_ hips bucking into the tendril of the suit around his cock. Shamefully, Peter's getting close already. Then Peter remembers that the one consolation, the one silver lining in this awful storm, is that he can come _really fast._ If this could all just be _over_ before the real Mr. Stark woke up, then he wouldn’t have to know. As soon as this version of Mr. Stark got what he wanted, as soon as there was so much as one opening or one sign of weakness, Peter would cut himself free, knock that sickening grin off his face, and send his attacker right back to the universe he came from. 

With that thought in mind, he stops pushing back the impending orgasm. As soon as Tony gets his hand on Peter's dick Peter comes, orgasm crashing over him like a wave. He trembles through the aftershocks, and thinks, _at least that's done with._

But before Peter has even finished catching his breath, Tony's hands are on Peter's inner thighs, rubbing small circles that has him jerking helplessly, oversensitized. And then he drags his thumb carelessly over the head of Peter's cock again, observing with nonchalant fascination as it hardens. "Would you look at that. You can already go again."

“What are you— what are you doing?” Peter says, trying desperately to keep his voice even. “You got what you wanted. _Let me go.”_

To his horror, Tony only laughs. “Did you really think we were done here? I barely even touched you, and you expect me to be satisfied? You and I are done when I say we’re done. And _I_ say we’re only getting started.” He frees the restraints from Peter’s wrists, and Peter falls to his knees on the floor. Peter is just about to wind his arm back to throw a punch when his arms are yanked back behind him by another piece of the suit, restraints flying around his wrists and locking them behind his back. Tony kicks at the back of his knees, so that his legs give way and he lands with a _thud_ on the floor. He glares up at Tony with all the rage he can muster, but Tony only grins wider. He rubs the sole of his foot against Peter’s cock, and Peter jerks as a helpless moan falls from his lips. He presses down harder and Peter whimpers, bucking his still sensitive cock up into the metal casing of the suit. His nerves sing with pleasure even as shame wracks through him.

“Get up. We’ve got more work to do.” Dragging Peter up by a fistful of hair, he positions Peter on his knees so that his face is level with his cock. He deactivates his own suit around the crotch, exposing just enough for Peter to see that he’s sporting a semi. Peter feels sick with dread. All the times he's wanted this, all the times he's dreamed about this— but not like this, never like this. If the Mr. Stark in Peter's fantasies was rough with him it was because Peter wanted it, and because he wanted to make Peter feel good, not because— 

"What are you waiting for? Go on. Do you need me to walk you through how to give a blowjob? I figured a pretty little slut like you would already know how to do this. Am I wrong?"

Peter purposely doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what would be worse, to tell Tony that he's a virgin, or to lie. He's watched porn. The sooner he gets Tony off, the better, so he races through all the techniques he's practiced on a banana. This can't be all that different.

Except it is. As soon as Peter gets his mouth around Tony's cock Tony grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks, shoving his face all the way down until Peter groans, tears budding around the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, you don't have a gag reflex. How lucky," is Tony's only comment as he continues to pull Peter's hair, shove him down and pull him up, fucking Peter's face with his cock until Peter can't breathe. "Ah, that's good. That's _good._ Look at you, so obedient for me. My own personal fleshlight. I like this universe already. Maybe I should stay."

Fear spikes in Peter's blood. Of course, Tony catches on. "Aw, what's wrong, baby? You don't like me? I'm not just doing this for me, you know. I'm giving you exactly what you want. You think that your precious Mr. Stark, lying there in that bed, would let you suck his dick like this? Oh, sweetheart, if he found out how you really think of him, he'd never want to see you again. I'm the only one who'll give you this. Don't you forget it." 

Peter feels lightheaded, vision swimming, unable to tell if it's the dizziness of having his breath cut off or if it's the tears leaking out of his eyes. Just as Tony's hips start to twitch erratically, just as Peter feels like he's about to pass out, Tony yanks Peter's mouth off of his cock. "I don't want to come just yet," he explains. "You'd look pretty, with my come splattered on your face, marking you as mine. But I think you'd look even prettier with it dripping out of your tight little hole. What do you think? Pick one." 

Peter pants, chest heaving. His throat feels raw, and all the other parts of him do, too. The thought of Tony getting his dick inside him, where no one else had been before, is too much to bear. "Come on my face," says Peter. And because he knows what Tony wants by now, he tacks on, "Please. Tony."

"Good boy," says Tony, smoothing a hand over Peter's hair and making him shudder. "Because you were so honest with me, I'll give you a reward. My cock in your ass. Fill you up with my come, just the way you want it."

Peter freezes up. "But I said—"

"I know what you said. I know what you're trying to do. But we're playing by _my_ rules, sweetie. You'd better get that through your head. Shame, I thought you were smart. Looks like you're slow on the uptake after all." He kicks at Peter's thigh. "Get on your hands and knees, kid. Oh, wait, your hands are tied behind your back." In a swift motion, the restraints unlock, and in the brief moment of freedom Peter gets a hand on his web shooters as fast as he can. It's still too late. The webbing shoots out at an angle, hitting the wall instead of his attacker. And the restraints only bring Peter's wrists around to his front, locking them there. Tony shoves Peter down onto his elbows and knees.

"You tried. I'll give you some brownie points for that. You're real feisty, you know that? I'm having a lot of fun with this. Gets a bit tiring, after all. All those beautiful actors and models draping themselves all over me because they want the glory and the fame. But you, Pete? You're even better. You like me for _who I am._ " He says that last part dripping with venom.

"You'll never be Mr. Stark," says Peter with as much bite as he can. The name Mr. Stark is reserved for Peter’s mentor. The man he looked up to. The hero he knew. Not this disgusting villain, standing in front of him, eyes glinting with dark, twisted perversion. This Tony didn’t deserve Peter’s respect. That was his one act of defiance. Tony could make him come. Tony could make him cry and squirm and grow too tired to fight back. But he’d never earn Peter’s respect.

"Oh, I know, sweetie. But I'm _better._ He wouldn't fuck you the way I do."

That's all the preamble Tony gives before he kicks Peter's knees apart, spits in his hand and shoves a finger up Peter's hole. It burns, without proper lube, a fit so tight Peter doesn't know how he'll be able to take more than a finger. He cries out in pain, and Tony chuckles.

"Oh, Pete. You have no idea how good you sound right now. My dirty little slut, spreading open just for me."

Peter grits his teeth, tries desperately to swallow the noise when Tony shoves in a second finger, but fails. His cock twitches, the pain searing through him, intertwined with unwanted pleasure when he feels Tony's breath on the nape of his neck, making his hairs stand on end.

"Yeah, c'mon. Take it, just like that. I can't wait until I get my cock inside your perfect little ass. You're gonna take me _so well._ " He kissed the back of Peter's neck, the weight of his body covering Peter's back so perfectly, just the way Peter had always imagined it would be with Mr. Stark. It was enough that his brain forgot the situation he was in, and he came again just like that, splattering over the floor and gasping for air.

Pathetic. He felt pathetic. Now Tony knew exactly how easy it was to get Peter to come twice in a row.

"Hm," he said with mild interest. "How many times can I get you to come, do you think? It's too bad the other Tony doesn't have data on this, but hey, better late than never. What do you say we try for five? Ten? We can start a new folder in Tony's files, catalog all the different ways I could get you to come. I bet he'd like going through that after he wakes up." 

Peter shakes with fury and shame, only barely able to suppress a sob. This wasn't what he wanted. He thought Tony would be able to help. He thought Tony could bring back Mr. Stark. He had thought, naively, that any version of Tony Stark would treat him with care and affection, even if it wasn't the type Peter craved. But maybe this was what he deserved for overestimating his importance in Iron Man's life.

A third finger, and Peter cries out. It's too much. His knees start to buckle, and Tony smacks him across the ass. It stings, but the hurt pales in comparison to the pain lodged in Peter's chest. "Shut up and take it, you greedy whore. I haven't even come yet. Haven't even got my dick inside you. I'm not having you tap out _now."_

His fingers, rough and thick, push against Peter's prostate and Peter _whines,_ body trembling with how good it feels, the momentary wave of biological pleasure washing over everything else. 

"See? Doesn't it feel good if you just relax like this?" 

Peter's too overwhelmed to respond, only lets his body jerk forward and backward with the thrusts of Tony's fingers until, finally, Tony lines his cock up against Peter's entrance and Peter's body seizes up with dread once again. 

"I told you to _relax,_ kid. You're shit at following orders. Honest to God, I don't know why Tony keeps you around if he's not fucking you." 

Peter can think of a multitude of reasons. He can fight. He's a superhero. But he sure as hell doesn't feel like one right now. He doesn't feel like anything other than a means to an end. Why _did_ Tony Stark keep him around? It wasn't like he was good for anything. He wasn't even good at this. As soon as Tony pushes in, he cries out brokenly, restrained wrists clawing uselessly at the slippery floor, trying to regain purchase. It feels like everything he wants is slipping right past him. He can't hold on anymore, can only kneel there and take it as Tony grips onto his hips and pistons into Peter, merciless and brutal. Peter feels like he's going to be split open.

Tony sighs behind him. "Oh, fuck, _yeah._ You feel so damn good like this, you have no idea." He bites down on Peter's earlobe, almost tender. "So, _so_ good for me. You were made for this."

Peter knows what Tony's doing, knows he's clued into the things Peter's body likes to hear, and he feels disgusting as he comes again, tears escaping his eyes as he cries out. 

His throat seizes up as Tony keeps going, fucking him even harder. He might beg to stop if he could, but his mind can't form words right now, pain and pleasure fighting for attention and landing on bleak hopelessness. If he had the capacity to think, he might even think fondly upon that time when he thought it’d be over after he came just once. Right now, it’s starting to feel like there’s no end to this pain wracking through him. He hopes he passes out before Mr. Stark wakes up. He doesn’t even know if Mr. Stark is going to wake up. He’s so overwhelmed that it’s taking every ounce of his effort to keep his sanity, to remember why he’s even here in the first place. 

Oh, right. He was the one who brought Tony here. He brought this on himself. 

There was a trick, once, that Uncle Ben taught him, the first time he had to give a class presentation. He’d been so nervous and jittery that he couldn’t speak. Uncle Ben had told him this— _just imagine you’re in your happy place. You’re back home, reading a story book to me and your Aunt May, and nobody’s watching, and we’re all very proud of you. Yeah, just like that. See, wasn’t that easy?_

But he’s not a six-year-old kid anymore. And his happy place is far too intertwined with where he is right now. All Peter wanted was for Mr. Stark to come back. To hold him in his arms, and tell him, _you did good, Peter. I’m proud of you._

That’s not going to happen. Because Mr. Stark is here, now, pushing inside of Peter and stretching him open, and every tear that falls from Peter’s eyes only makes him fuck harder, and every scream that escapes Peter’s hoarse throat is only answered by a laugh.

In the place where sadness or anger should be, a new wave of exhaustion takes its place. When Mr. Stark hits his prostate again, squeezing another unwanted orgasm out of his body, he closes his eyes and lets the darkness envelop him as he finally passes out.

──────

They fall into a routine. 

Peter wakes up, gets fed, Tony has his way with him, he falls asleep again. Peter loses track of the days. There’s no calendar, in here, and Tony’s reprogrammed FRIDAY to stop responding to Peter’s voice. He guesses it’s been a little over a week, but cut off from the outside world with no possible escape route, he doesn’t have much of a frame of reference. The hope he held on to— that Tony hadn't lied about Extremis, that Mr. Stark really would come back— starts to slip out of his grasp like quicksand.

The day it all changes, he wakes up, as per usual, dressed in Mr. Stark’s clothes and in his bed, body aching as it tries to repair the damage done to it last night. Tony is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his endo-sym suit, playing with his holo-screen. A flawless facade of normalcy. 

Peter tries to get up, only to wonder why he bothered. His wrists are still restrained with light silver and blue cuffs. The weight of the collar around his neck presses against his skin, reminding him of his captivity.

“Morning, sunshine,” says Tony over his shoulder. “I’ve got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

Peter keeps his mouth shut. 

“I kinda liked it when you’d talk back to me,” says Tony wistfully. “What happened? Anyway, the good news is this: while you were asleep, I went and checked up on your little boyfriend. I’ve hacked into the system, and I’ve been keeping an eye on his vitals. It took a hell of a long time for Extremis to work its way through his body, but he’s almost awake now. He was really close to dying, you know. Lucky for him, he had you.” 

Peter shakes from head to toe, unable to respond, caught up in a nameless blend of rage and shame and hopeful disbelief.  _ He’s lying,  _ he tells himself.  _ He hasn’t said a single true thing since you met him.  _ And yet, the hope that buds in his heart is undeniable. He can’t figure out why Tony suddenly had a change of heart, but the reason doesn’t matter— the singular desire to see Mr. Stark is all that wells up inside him, blooming behind his ribs in the place where he’d been numb for days.

“You want to see him?” 

Peter needs to. He needs to know. Tony was right. Even if there was a slight chance that Mr. Stark would be back, Peter would take it. And if Mr. Stark was truly back, then maybe, just maybe, all of this would’ve been worth it. 

He gets up and follows Tony to the room where Mr. Stark lies. True to Tony’s word, Mr. Stark is slowly but surely stirring. Tears well up in Peter’s eyes. This is what he’d hoped for. What he thought could only happen in his dreams. He feels the ache all throughout his body, but then thinks of Mr. Stark, awake and smiling, familiar life brimming in his eyes and the tears fall down his face. He quickly swipes them away, hating that Tony is seeing him with his heart laid open and bare. 

“Enough with the snivelling, kid,” says Tony, sounding bored. “Do you want him to see you like this?”

Unable to form words through the tight knot in his chest, Peter shakes his head no.

Mr. Stark’s voice drops back to a deceptively gentle tone. “That’s what I thought. Oh, and before I forget?” He holds up a small remote in his hand. “I gave him his life back, but I can take it away whenever I want. This little device here can put a stop to the effects of Extremis. So if you think you can fight your way out of this? Think again.”

Coldness grips around Peter’s throat and courses through his veins. He forces himself to nod.

Tony smiles, an upward dip to the side of his mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good boy. You’ve got five seconds to pull yourself together before he opens his eyes. Five.”

Peter swipes hastily at his eyes. 

“Four.” 

Deep breaths. 

“Three, two—”

Deep breaths, deep breaths—

“One.” 

And then, finally, on the bed he’s been confined to for months, Mr. Stark’s eyes blink blearily open.


	3. Chapter 3

“You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things.   
You wanted to be in love   
and he happened to get in the way.”

_ ― Richard Siken, Crush _

──────

Tony was pretty sure he died. The last thing he knew he was on a battlefield on an alien planet, as the pain of a tough decision ate away at his right side (but it was nothing compared to the pain of seeing Peter Parker’s crying face, hearing him call Tony by his name). 

And then in the next moment, he’s here, in some sort of bed. And Peter Parker is standing right in front of him. Wearing his clothes. Standing next to Peter, with a paternal hand on Peter’s back, is a clone of Tony himself.

“Did I go to heaven or hell?” Tony asks. God, his voice sounds weird like this, scratchy with misuse. “I’m thinking heaven, ‘cause Pete’s here, but also, there’s another _me,_ God knows why. Is this some kind of in-between? The Medium Place?”

“Mr. Stark,” says Peter. His voice is shaking. There are tears in his eyes.

“No, no, don’t cry,” says Tony. “Fuck, I just woke up and I already made you cry. Worst superhero mentor in the universe. Hey, other Tony? Care to fill me in on what’s happening here? How long has it been since we fought the ugly purple grape?”

Tony’s double laughs good-naturedly. His eyes are blue, for some reason. Tony’s still not unconvinced this is not a dream, even if the feeling in his limbs are slowly coming back to him, the dull ache in his head making him think he was out cold for longer than it felt like. 

“Two months, give or take,” says Tony’s double. He pats Peter on the back. “This one figured out how to bring an alternate you from an alternate universe. You remember Extremis? I figured out a cure for you based on that. What a boost to your own ego, am I right? The only one who could save you was yourself.”

“Thanks for that,” says Tony, and he means it. He very much appreciates the feeling of being alive. And of getting to see Peter again. He sits up, though it takes a huge amount of effort, and the needles stuck in his arms sting with pain. “Can I take these things out? I’m really not a fan.”

“Sure, go ahead,” says Tony’s double. Tony removes the needles one by one and then finally stands up, pushing himself off the bed. Even standing feels rough; he’ll have to get used to it. He probably looks about as weak as he feels, because Peter stares at him, wide-eyed, an implacable grief in his eyes. 

“Don’t look so sad, kid,” Tony says warmly. “I’m back. All thanks to you.” He reaches out to ruffle Peter’s hair, the way he used to, the way that made Peter beam from ear to ear. But Peter flinches and pulls away so quickly that Tony can only frown, brows drawing together in confusion. 

He looks to his double. “What happened to the kid? Is he okay?” 

An ugly grin slithers across the face of Tony’s double. From his suit— a cool blend of light silver and blue— slithers a liquid metal appendage that locks around Tony’s neck. Two more bind Tony’s wrists together in front of him.

“I guess you’re about to find out.”

 _“No,”_ says Peter, face going horribly pale. “Don’t hurt him.”

Tony looks to Peter’s eyes, questions burning in his throat, but Peter refuses to look at him, holding his head down. Answers elude him. Tony reaches out to Peter, seeking contact, familiarity— anything but the confusion that he’s in. 

“Nuh-uh,” says Tony’s double. “Keep your hands to yourself— no touching. You had your chance, and you blew it. He’s mine now.”

Rage blinds Tony, blocking out all other thought and replacing it with the pure impulse to wrench his double’s head from his shoulders with his bare hands.

_“What the hell did you do to him?”_

“I thought you’d ask that. It’s a shame, really— I was hoping you’d wake up sooner and see for yourself. But don’t worry, I’ve videotaped it for your consideration. FRIDAY? Pull up the video feed.” 

So even Tony’s AI is no longer his own. But that's the least of his thoughts. For what pops up on the holo-screen in front of him is unmistakably Peter, half-naked and teary-eyed, and Tony sees, for a split second before he could make the decision to look away, exactly what his attacker has done. Past the screen, the real Peter blanches, face going white with horror and shame.

Tony fires the punch before he realizes he’s even wound his arm back. Instead of the satisfaction of cracking his double’s grin in half, his fist hits something solid and transparent.

Tony’s double flashes a knowing grin and taps the glass in front of his face. “It’s graphene. Stronger than most steels, transparent. I’ve got to say, I don’t quite understand why you keep your face covered up under that mask. Why would you deprive people of these dashing good looks?”

“You sick _bastard,”_ says Tony, shaking so thoroughly that he’s barely in control of his own actions. He reaches for his double’s neck fully intending to wring the life out of it, only to be knocked aside and thrown against the wall. He leaps back to his feet and charges again and again, only to be deflected and flung aside each time.

“Stop,” Peter cries out. “Stop it, Mr. Stark. He’s hurting you. He’s going to _kill_ you.”

It’s the shaky concern, the terror Peter’s voice that jerks Tony back to reality. Heaving shaky breaths, he forces himself to go still. Reminds himself to keep his sanity for Peter. If he lets himself be in danger, then Peter’s in danger, too. 

“See, that’s where you’ve got it wrong,” says Tony’s double. “I’m not going to _kill_ you, Tony Stark. I’m going to make you fuck your pretty little boy toy while I watch. And _then_ I’ll kill you.”

The blast fires from Tony’s repulsor before he makes the conscious decision to do it. Tony’s double sees it coming, though. With his armor, he deflects the blow in a calculated manner, sending the blast towards Peter. It lands on the wall, blowing a dent into it inches away from Peter’s face.

“See what happens if you don’t listen to me? I know you, Tony. I _am_ you. I know just how to get under your skin and just what’ll hurt most. Next time you attack me, I’m blowing that kid to smithereens. You got it?”

Seething with rage, more rage than he’s ever felt before, Tony wills every fiber of his body to obey.

“I got it,” says Tony. “You want to get off, don’t you? I’ll help you with that. I’m very good at it. And if you’re anything like me, then you’ve always wanted to fuck your clone, right? Why get him involved? I can do more than enough to satisfy you.”

“Nice try. But if you wanted to preserve his innocence, it’s a bit too late for that,” says Tony’s double. His grin makes Tony want to retch. 

“Don’t,” says Peter. “I’ve— you’ve already— just use me. Don’t touch Mr. Stark. I— I can take it.”

Tony’s stomach churns with disgust and guilt. He was supposed to protect Peter. Instead, Peter had been— 

“Kid's got a point,” says the man wearing Tony’s face. “He’s got a hell of a lot more stamina than you, even without Extremis. How’d you keep your hands off a treasure like him, anyway?” 

Tony grits his teeth. Forces himself not to respond. Not to give in. 

“And hey, if you’re anything like _me?_ You’d probably like it if I fucked you. I think it’ll hurt you more to fuck him.” The collar around Tony’s neck tightens slightly, a looming threat. “Follow my orders or die, take your pick. I wonder what'd be more fun to watch, choking you to death or sapping the Extremis out of your body?” 

Tony claws at the collar, his thoughts scattered with anger and panic and despair. The collar doesn't budge. He doesn’t know why he bothered. This man is another version of _him,_ after all. His symbiotic technology is impeccably designed, in tune with his every thought and emotion. The collar only tightens dangerously.

“Get on the bed.” 

Tony looks around the room, cataloging possible weapons. FRIDAY had switched allegiances and was out of the question. There were the needles previously stuck in his own arms would do nothing to pierce the suit, and there was a lamp on the bedside table, but neither of those would do anything to pierce the suit. His double’s face was still behind its graphene mask. The room had been kept clinically bare, and there was nothing else around that was useful in a fight. And there was no leftover dose of Extremis— though he couldn't think of any use that wouldn’t backfire.

Tony’s double narrows his eyes, voice growing harsh. “I said, _get on the bed.”_

Peter lets out a choked, garbled noise of pain, hands instinctively flying to the collar around his neck. 

Tony immediately gets on the bed. With a shove from Tony’s double, Peter crawls onto the bed too, chest heaving for air. 

“Put on a good show for me, yeah?” says Tony’s double as he falls backwards into the guest chair by the bed, legs spread lazily, hand already reaching down to the front of the suit. In his other hand he holds up a small remote. “If I get bored, I might just change the channel.” 

“That thing can undo the effects of Extremis,” says Peter, voice low. “If he touches it, you’re going to pass out again. We should— just do what he says.” 

Tony holds Peter’s waist. It takes him a moment to register that it’s his own hand shaking, while Peter’s body is still.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers next to Peter’s ear. “I’m sorry, kid. This is my fault.” 

Peter shakes his head. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark. Let’s just get it over with.” 

_Get it over with,_ Tony thinks dryly as Peter straddles his lap. That’s the problem right there. Peter doesn’t want this. Tony, on the other hand, has come countless times thinking about this exact scenario, hand shoved down his pants, fucking his fist with Peter’s name on his lips.

It was never supposed to happen. And even on the rare occasions that he allowed himself to think about it, he never wanted it to be like this. Peter deserved _everything,_ and Tony could give him nothing. Nothing but another helping of pain on top of what he’d already gone through. 

At the very least, though, he could make the act as painless as possible. 

He trails his hands along Peter’s back, intending the touch to be reassuring. Instead, Peter whimpers and his hips jerk forward, clothed cock brushing against Tony’s own. Tony swallows hard around the tightness in his throat and desperately wills his dick not to respond in kind. He fails, of course. With Peter writhing in his lap like this, chasing friction by rutting against Tony’s own cock, it’s impossible to bite back the groan that escapes his mouth. 

Tony steadies a hand in Peter’s hair, and decides to use the other to pop the button of Peter’s jeans. He slips a hand past the hem of his boxers and past the trail of hair, cupping it around Peter’s cock, and Peter gasps and comes hard, just like that, into Tony’s hand. And, well. _Fuck._ That was the hottest thing Tony’s ever seen. His brain sizzles out for a hot second, zeroing in on how _gorgeous_ Peter looked coming apart in his arms.

Peter leans his head against Tony’s shoulder, catching his breath. “Sorry,” he mumbles into the fabric of Tony’s shirt. 

Tony strokes his hair gently. “It’s alright, kid. This is kind of the point, isn’t it?” So, Peter's really sensitive, then. He has to wonder how much of it is the teenager thing, and how much of it is the Spidey senses thing.

“Watching you two cream your pants like teenagers? Nope, that’s definitely _not_ the point.” The smirk that arises on his double’s face gives Tony a cold dose of reality. “I know _one_ of you is an actual teenager, but Tony, you can do better. Take off the kid’s clothes already.” 

Tony grits his teeth so hard his jaw nearly snaps in half. He reminds himself to stay calm. For Peter's sake, he can't, won't, succumb to anger again.

“Can I?” says Tony, gesturing to Peter’s clothes, which are really Tony’s own. As good as they look on him, it feels wrong. Too domestic, like Peter had stayed over of his own will, like they were really— no. Thoughts weren’t going to help either of them in this situation. 

“Yeah, go ahead,” says Peter. He lifts his hips, still a little shaky, and Tony slides his pants and boxers off. Peter tries to kick them off of his left ankle, but lets out a frustrated sound when they get stuck there, and Tony tries to quell the feeling of _endearment_ that bubbles up inside him at that. He wraps a hand around Peter’s cock again, stroking slow and light, and Peter gasps, twitching and writhing on his lap. The curve of his ass brushes against Tony’s leg, and he feels something hard there, so he reaches down out of curiosity between Peter’s cheeks. 

He freezes when his hand comes into contact with something solid and metal, plugged up right where Peter’s entrance is. He doesn’t have to look to know that it’s going to be a shade of pale silver. Another extension of the endo-sym suit, crafted into a tool for perverse pleasure, a symbol of captivity.

Well, that explains why Peter came instantaneously. But it’s not the explanation Tony wanted.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says Tony’s double across the room, still lazily stroking himself. “You’re going to fuck him, using my come as lube.”

Peter hides his face in Tony’s shoulder, whole body tensing. Tony’s grip on Peter’s shoulder tightens protectively. 

“What? Don’t pretend like you don’t want this,” says Tony’s double. “I know you, Tony. Every gap and every crevice. All your deep dark fantasies? I’m just bringing them to life and giving you exactly what you want on a silver platter.”

A horrible chill overtakes Tony’s body. He knows it’s a provocation. But he also knows, full well, that the other Tony is right. As much as Tony wants to say that he would _never_ force himself onto Peter— how could he know for sure? Isn’t he doing exactly what he swore he never would, right now? 

He opens his mouth, then closes it, scrambling for words and failing to find them. “I’m not like you,” he says weakly, with no real meaning. Because what’s truly terrifying is the thought that this Tony isn’t as far removed from his original self as he once believed.

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Stark,” says Peter quietly, and of _course_ Peter would defend him unconditionally, which is _exactly_ why this sort of thing should have never happened. Tony feels dizzy with disgust. _Get it over with,_ he reminds himself. He needs to stick to his original plan of making sure Peter gets hurt as little as possible. It’s the only thing he can do.

“Okay,” says Tony. “Okay. Let’s do this.” 

Gently, he removes the plug, diverting his gaze as he does so. Still, out the corner of his eye, he catches the sight of the come spilling down Peter’s thighs. He can’t miss the shiver that runs through Peter’s body and the soft whimper that he lets out as he tightens around the newfound emptiness.

“I’m going to finger you now,” says Tony. Maybe if he narrates this like any normal sexual encounter, he can manage to delude them both.

_“Ah—”_

The noise that Peter lets out when Tony’s finger slips in with ease is one Tony will never be able to forget. Peter’s cheeks are flushed, sweat beading on his forehead, cock hard again and bobbing up and down as he sinks down on Tony’s finger, fucking himself on it. “S-sorry, Mr. Stark, I can’t— can’t help it. Feels so good.”

Tony kisses his forehead softly, and Peter whimpers at the touch. He adds a second, and Peter gasps, fingers digging into Tony’s back.

“Hurry it up, folks,” Tony’s double cuts in. “You really think he needs prep? He’s been plugged up with my come inside for half a day. He’s _aching_ for it. Gorgeous, filthy little whore.”

Peter’s face pales in shame, clutching tightly at Tony. And then Tony realizes that his complexion isn’t just paling because of the words. The collar has seized tightly around Peter’s neck again, cutting off his air supply. 

“Stick your cock in, or I choke him till he passes out,” says Tony’s double with an air of despicable nonchalance.

Tony lines himself up, holding on to Peter’s hips and guiding him down onto his cock. True to the other Tony’s word, it slides in with ease, having been stretched out already. Tony hates the wet sound as he slides in, _hates_ that their attacker had taken this, too, this thing that, were it to ever happen, was supposed to be purely and wholly _theirs._ But despite that, the fact that it’s _Peter_ around him, tightening and squirming, makes a sickening heat flare up inside of Tony so intense he nearly chokes on it. Tony can't tell who he's more revolted with, the other Tony or himself.

“Oh—” Peter groans, sounding wrecked and gorgeous. _“F-fuck—_ Mr. Stark, I—” 

Peter has only barely bottomed out before he comes again, untouched, spilling all over the front of his own shirt. Chest heaving as he gasps for air, and Tony pets his hair through it. He’s all too wary of the way his dick just twitched violently inside of Peter, and of the tight heat building in the pit of his stomach. He’s getting close, and he knows it. 

As if reading his mind, Tony’s double saunters over. “Yeah, no. It’s finally getting good, I’m not letting you come just like that.” 

“I thought you wanted to watch,” says Tony through gritted teeth. Protectiveness washes over him like a wave. He could try to treat Peter with gentleness and care, but only while he was the one touching Peter. But if Tony’s double gets his hands on him _(he already did,_ a nasty voice in Tony’s mind reminds him), then this is all over.

“I changed my mind,” says Tony’s double with a grin as he gets onto the bed. “I had another great idea, I’m full of those. You would know, wouldn’t you, Tony?” To Peter, he says, “Get on your hands and knees, kid.” 

Peter obeys, lifting himself off of Tony’s cock to get on all fours on the bed. Tony positions himself behind Peter automatically, pushing his dick back inside and Peter _moans,_ clutching the sheets. Tony decides to stop pretending he is above being turned on by that.

“Did I tell you to get back to fucking him?” Tony’s double frowns. 

“You told me to fuck him with your come as lube,” Tony retorts. “I’m just following orders.” He runs a hand softly over Peter’s back. “I’ll try my best to make it good for you, yeah? Just relax. Pretend this asshole’s not even here.” 

“Damn, Tony,” says Tony’s double. “I know you always wanted a sibling, but quit acting like we’re brothers fighting over our favourite plaything. It’s been clear from the first moment you woke up— the kid is _mine._ ” Tony’s double shoves his cock in Peter’s face, tilts Peter’s head up with the tip of a deceitfully gentle finger, and says, “Suck.”

“He’s not yours,” says Tony. “He doesn’t belong to anybody.” 

Tony’s double quirks up an eyebrow and gestures to Peter, who has obediently taken the head of his cock into his mouth and is sucking gently, like he knows from experience what makes Tony feel good, and that thought makes Tony _sick._

“I don’t know about that. Kid sucks cock like he was born for it.” 

Anger surges through Tony’s body as he watches his double caress Peter’s hair, a mirror image of what Tony himself had done earlier, except that those blue eyes look at Peter like he’s a shiny new trophy sitting atop his shelf. “Look at how much you’re enjoying this. You’re insatiable, aren’t you? My pretty little slut.” 

Peter can’t respond with his mouth full. He lets out a muffled whine around Tony’s double’s cock, shoved in his mouth. The sound goes right to Tony's crotch, and his hips twitch of their own accord inside of Peter.

“Come on, don't hold back. fuck him harder. He likes it.” 

In response, Tony keeps his pace slow as he thrusts his hips into Peter. He rubs circles into Peter’s hips. Murmurs into his ear, “It’s going to be over soon, I promise, it’s going to be okay. You’re doing so well. You’re perfect.” 

It feels like an act of defiance, the way that Tony gets Peter to come through tenderness and words alone— and he _hates_ that he even had that thought because it’s not a competition, the other Tony is but an intruder— but the possessiveness burns through Tony and he can’t stop it from taking over. 

As Peter comes apart, shaking through his orgasm, his lips slip off of the cock that was in his mouth. Tony’s double grabs a fistful of hair and slaps Peter across the face, and the shock of pain jolts through Tony as clearly as though it were his own. 

“I told you,” says Tony’s double, “to suck me off. You can’t even do that properly?”

Tony has never felt so enraged, so helpless, as he cradles Peter’s reddened face in his hand and feels a tear slip down Peter's cheek. He already knew that the other version of himself was not afraid to enact violence and to hurt Peter, but this, for some reason, feels so visceral and demeaning. 

After that outburst, it’s almost like Peter settles into a dull acceptance. He’s focused on performing well, on making Tony’s double feel good, so it can end quickly. Licks his cock expertly with his tongue, wrapping a hand around the base, even playing with his balls. Trying the tricks he’s probably learned only recently. All the while, every time Tony himself slows down the pace at which he fucks Peter, both their collars tighten until they see stars. And so he has no choice but to grip onto Peter’s hips and finally give in to the urge that has pervaded him since this all started. He pistons his hips into Peter, channeling every ounce of desire into chasing his release, their release. He lets the tightness of Peter’s walls around him, the intoxicating sound of Peter’s moans, urge him on to his inevitable climax. With a groan, he spills inside of Peter, heart racing as the aftershocks pulse through him, hating himself through every minute of it.

And then, finally, Tony’s double comes with a long groan, fucking Peter’s mouth hard enough that Peter audibly gags on it. When he lets go, Peter detaches himself from both of them and withdraws in on himself. Tony couldn’t get a good view of his face before, but now he knows, with appalling certainty, that Peter is crying.

“Hm,” says Tony’s double. “Not as fun as I thought. I don’t know, I always thought it’d be nice to have a threesome with myself, but all you did was piss me off and kill my boner.” He reaches for the remote. “Maybe I should just put you back to sleep after all. Peter’s more than enough to keep me company.”

Tony hasn’t had the mental capacity to analyze their tormentor’s motives, but now, he settles on the conclusion that the man is a sociopath. That he wants, and takes what he wants, with absolutely no regard for other human lives. Glory, power, lust, and greed. The person Tony himself might very well have become. This, more so than the threat of death, is what terrifies Tony to the bone.

 _“No,”_ says Peter. He’s shaking again, eyes watering. “You promised. We did everything you wanted us to. _You can’t do this.”_

Of course, after everything, Peter is still fighting for his life. There isn’t a single alternate universe in which he deserves Peter Parker, and yet.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” says Tony. He runs a hand over his face, and he’s sure that he looks as worn-out and helpless as he feels. They went through all of this, only to find that none of it mattered. “I thought we could figure a way out. I’m sorry I put you through this. You never deserved any of it.”

Peter’s eyes water as he looks back at Tony. “That’s not true, Mr. Stark. That’s— there’s got to be _something_ we can do—”

Tony’s double rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, keep talking. I’ve already won.” He waves the remote. “When I was watching all those cute little home videos of your relationship, you know which one stuck out to me? It was the one on the— where was it—” He snaps his fingers. “Right. The Staten Island ferry. When you were all like, _if you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it._ I have to ask, Tony— were you talking about yourself? Because right now, I think you really are nothing.” He steps his foot, cased in metal, on Tony’s cock, and Tony bites down on his tongue to keep back the groan that threatens to escape. “There’s only one guy who deserves this suit. And that’s me.”

Tony’s fists clench involuntarily. 

“Shame, though,” Tony’s double drawls, his gaze completely nonchalant. “I went to all that trouble to wake you up, thinking you’d at least be a challenge. If I just wanted a couple of sex slaves, I could’ve picked just anybody. What’s the fun in trying to tame a lion only to find out it’s just a domesticated kitten?” 

But for once, the provocation fails to work. Tony’s mind is elsewhere. His eyes go wide as the beginnings of an idea take root in his mind.

_There’s only one guy who deserves this suit. And that’s me._

It’s a gamble. But it’s worth a shot. 

“Peter,” he says. He shoots Peter an intense gaze, hoping that somehow, miraculously, his intent will come across. “I need you to run. Get out of here.” 

“What—?” Peter furrows his brow, but then he nods, pulling his clothes back on. “Yeah. Roger that.”

Despite being exhausted and pushed to his limit, he's still much faster than the average person. He makes his way across the room and to the door in no time. 

“You’re kidding, right? _This_ is your big escape plan? I’ve got your AI wrapped around my fingers— every single room here locked down. No one comes in, no one goes out. Tough luck.” Tony’s double shoots a tendril from his suit, extending it far across the room to reach Peter and bring him back, and in that half-second between the time the tendril reaches Peter, Tony jumps out and grabs onto it with his hand.

The suit was designed for _Tony._ To clue in to exactly what he wanted and obey his command, no further actions required. But that begged the question— _which_ Tony? There was only ever one Tony Stark, in any given universe, and it was likely that Tony Stark’s hubris had not allowed him to consider the possibility of how the suit might react in the presence of another Tony.

For a second, Tony wonders if it won’t work after all. But then, cloaking him like a second skin, the suit forms a gauntlet, silvery white and blue, around Tony’s right hand. The shock that flashes across his double’s face, the first hint of human emotion, makes Tony grin. He watches his double reach out a naked hand, willing the gauntlet back. It doesn't work. Tony blasts his repulsors, striking the weaponless hand. Blood splatters across the wall. 

“You,” says Tony’s double, breathing ragged, anger flaring in his eyes. “You’ll pay for this.” 

“Would you like that in cash, or a cheque?” says Tony. 

“You’ll pay with your life. I'll kill you. Then we'll see who's stronger."

His double charges at him, jets propelling himself off the floor, and makes the mistake of trying to wrap the tendrils of his suit around Tony’s body to restrain him. Tony takes advantage of that moment when the suit is in limbo to seize control of it, forming another gauntlet and smacking his enemy upside the head, cracking the clear mask of graphene. 

From somewhere behind Tony, webbing shoots forward, sticking onto Tony’s double and binding his empty wrists together. Tony doesn’t even have to look to know who it is, and for a moment, he allows his heart to fill with pride, and trust, the sort of feeling he always gets fighting side by side with Peter.

“Nice try, Stark,” says Tony. “But we all know who's the strongest person in the room.” 

Tony grabs onto what remains of the endo-sym suit as tightly as he can, and wills it to obey him. To protect Peter, because that’s all that matters in this fight. He expects a mental tug-of-war as the suit splits its attention between both Tonys, who were in all aspects created equal. But to his surprise, the suit follows him obediently. It wraps around him snugly, a perfect fit, and it feels like coming home. He raises an arm, fires his repulsor, and blasts the other Tony with as much force as he can muster. Tony’s double flies through the floor-length window, shattering the glass into pieces. And falls.

Tony watches, dazed and detached, as his doppelganger crashes against the wall of a neighbouring building, and tumbles towards his death, intelligence and technology and narcissistic desire stripped bare until there is only fear in his eyes. Tony doesn’t hear the crash, but he sees it, the splatter of red that blooms on the cement ground, many stories below.

“If you’re nothing without the suit,” Tony says with finality, “then you shouldn’t have it.”


	4. Chapter 4

“...which brings us back  
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it.”

― _Richard Siken, Crush_

──────

Tony’s double survived the fall, but only barely. Ironically, it was as though the two of them had swapped places— the one who was alive and healthy was now the one hooked up to life via tubes in a hospital room in a maximum security prison. Tony was a firm advocate for the fact that he should’ve been given the death sentence. (“We can’t send him back to his universe and put those people in danger.” “We can send him to hell.”) But apparently that was against the law. In that respect, Tony thought the law was a load of bullshit. He was beginning to understand Steve’s thought process all those years back. 

With none of the satisfaction of murdering Tony’s double, and all of the pain that came with readjusting, Tony and Peter geared up to face the days ahead.

To explain away Peter’s absence, Tony forged him a doctor’s note stating he’d been hospitalized due to sickness. They had to report Tony’s double to the Avengers and SHIELD, so they could take care of things on the business end. And then Peter personally decided who in his circle to tell the truth to. As far as Tony knew, only Ned, MJ, and his aunt May knew he’d been kidnapped by an evil version of Tony Stark.

Peter told no one about the assaults. No one knew the extent of what the other Tony Stark had done but Tony himself, who woke up in a cold sweat every night. Sometimes with horror, the desire to throw up though there was no food in his stomach. Sometimes it was with something hot burning in the pit of his stomach, with Peter’s face in the midst of climax burned into Tony’s mind— and that made him even more sick. 

He couldn’t see Peter. His aunt May had personally asked Tony not to contact Peter for the next while, worried that it would conjure up traumatic memories of his kidnapping. Tony understood fully. And besides, if she knew the full extent of what had really happened, Tony suspected she would have done worse. 

And so he took to his old habits again. Each of his days blurred into the next, a mess of alcohol, until he couldn’t distinguish the impulse to cry from the impulse to knock over all his furniture in rage. Rhodey dropped by once in a while, concerned that he was having a hard time adjusting to being alive again. Tony couldn’t tell Rhodey that wasn’t it— that maybe in another universe, a better one, Tony dying would be the worst of it. That in another universe, Peter Parker would’ve gotten the safety and protection and happiness he deserved. 

Tony wonders if his life will pass him by just like that— living in a haze of never-ending guilt, being unable to talk to or help Peter the way he wishes that he could. Until one day, passed out on the couch with a few empty bottles by his feet, his girl FRIDAY dutifully rouses him from a nightmare-addled sleep.

“Boss,” says FRIDAY peppily. “You are scheduled to appear at Midtown High in about three hours. You’ll need to get dressed, wash away all hints of alcohol, and take the fastest route. If you do, you should arrive precisely on time.”

Tony sits up so fast it’s dizzying. “Midtown High? What the hell am I doing _there?”_

“You booked yourself in as a guest speaker for the scholarship night, on behalf of the September foundation. I detected an abnormally high blood alcohol level at the time, but you said, and I quote, _this is the new normal, FRI, get used to it,_ and insisted I obey your command.”

It all comes back to him then. He’d done it a few days ago. The scholarship night was an annual event, where the kids and parents learn about what type of post-secondary funding is available to them. Normally these things don’t require Tony to make a presence, especially not at a high school, but he wanted— needed— to see Peter again, and so he had drunkenly made the executive decision to book himself in as a guest speaker. And then, in classic Tony Stark fashion, he instantly passed out and forgot about the entire thing. Until now. 

“Shit,” says Tony to himself. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

He knows he’s fucked up. There’s a zero percent chance Peter will want to see him again, not when it’s all still so raw. (A small, terrified part of Tony wonders if Peter will _ever_ want to see him again, but he pushes that thought away. That prospect is far too debilitating to even think about.) 

“FRI,” says Tony before he can stop himself. “Call Peter.” 

FRIDAY puts him through. Peter picks up after five rings, not that Tony counts them. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

Even just the sound of Peter’s voice fills Tony with a confusing wave of relief and sorrow and guilt. He forces himself to speak through it.

“Hey, kid,” says Tony, trying to sound casual. “It’s really good to hear from you. How’re you holding up— no, scratch that, you don’t have to answer that. I just wanted to say—” he runs a hand over his face— “I booked myself in as a guest speaker for the scholarship night at your school. I wanted to ask if you were okay with that.”

“Yeah, I heard,” says Peter, sounding forcedly nonchalant. “I’m okay with it if you are.”

“Of course,” says Tony. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Good God, he’s doing a terrible job of not bringing up anything related to the incident. Terrible, terrible job. He clears his throat. “You know I’ve got pull at MIT, right? I mean, with your brains I’m sure you could get any scholarship you want, but if you want a little extra pizzazz, I can always throw in a personal recommendation.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Stark, you don’t have to do all that for me. But thank you.” A pause. “Is that everything?” 

“Yeah,” says Tony, all the breath leaving his body in a rush. “Yep, that’s everything. Have a good night, kid.” 

“’Night, Mr. Stark.”

Tony hangs up before he can dwell on the detachment in Peter’s voice and what that means. It doesn’t matter. He’ll see Peter soon. He’ll be able to confirm that Peter’s doing okay with his own eyes, and that’s all that matters. 

──────

As it turns out, Peter doesn’t show up to the event at all. A few minutes before Tony arrives at Midtown High, he gets a text from Peter that reads, _actually i’m not feeling well, won’t be able to make it. sorry Mr. Stark, have a good night_.

Immediately, he tells the self-driving car to turn around and make its way to Peter’s house. He doesn’t even bother thinking about how quickly his impulse took the wheel. There must still be some of that alcohol in his system. Or just the pervading, ever-present worry he’s gotten used to feeling ever since he met Peter Parker. Same difference, really— he’s never been able to keep either of those habits at bay.

He’ll just ask Peter if he’s okay, get FRIDAY to diagnose him if he’s sick, and then he’ll drop off some medicine. That’s all. He won’t overstay his welcome. That’s his plan as he walks up to Peter’s door and rings the doorbell. 

The door swings open, and there stands Peter, in his NYC shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants. Relief crashes over Tony like a wave to see him again for the first time in weeks, but it’s quickly diminished by the red that’s clearly rimming his eyes. 

“Mr. Stark,” says Peter, eyes wide. “What— you’re supposed to be at my school. What are you doing here?” 

“You said you weren’t feeling well,” says Tony. “I just wanted to check up on you. How’re you feeling? Is your aunt May home? I’ve got to make sure her cooking doesn’t make you feel worse. Actually, you know what, that’s none of my business. I don’t know why I came— I didn’t really think this through.” _I just wanted to see you,_ he thinks to himself.

“She’s not home right now,” says Peter. “But it’s fine. I can take care of myself. And I’m— not actually sick.” Admitting it is like admitting something else entirely. He ducks his head so that his face is in the shadows. Tony’s heart wrenches in his chest.

“Can we talk?” says Tony.

Peter lifts his head to meet his gaze. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Sure.” He steps aside, letting Tony make his way in and shutting the door behind him. Tony rarely feels this unsure of himself in any setting. It doesn’t help that Peter is standing there unmoving, except for his hands, which are wringing together so that his knuckles are going white. 

He decides to sit down on the couch. After a beat, Peter sits down next to him on the far end of it, leaving a wide berth between them. 

“I’m sorry,” says Tony. “I’m—” He runs a hand over his face, trying to slow down his breathing. “Fuck. It was all my fault. I shouldn’t— I don’t even know how I can begin to make things better. I’m so sorry, Peter.”

Peter shook his head, holding his body tense. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. And Tony almost laughs at this, because really, it should be the other way around. Tony should be comforting Peter— why is Tony here on the verge of a breakdown? 

He pulls himself together. Takes his hand off his face and looks at Peter.

“He looked like me, talked like me, thought like me—” _and even wanted you like me,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. This is not the time. Instead, he says, “That’s the kind of danger I could be to you.” 

“You would never hurt me,” says Peter. “Not on purpose.”

 _Not on purpose._ Of course. Time and time again, Tony has already failed to protect the one person he wants to protect most. 

“I already have,” says Tony. “I’ve done everything I swore I never would. I could never live with myself if I hurt you ever again. I can barely live with myself as it is. And i’m pretty sure half of that is because you’re the one who brought me to life, and dying on you now would waste all that effort.” 

It was supposed to be a half-joke, but Peter only shakes his head, eyes filling up with tears. This is not how it’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to make things better for Peter, not worse, and it’s all— wrong, just wrong. 

“If anybody should be sorry, it should be me,” says Peter. “I brought him here. I thought he could help, but he didn’t. He hurt you, too. He made you— do things you didn’t want to.”

Whether or not Tony _wanted to_ was not the problem. “That doesn’t even hold a candle to what he did to you.” Belatedly, Tony realizes he’s shaking. “The things he said, and did— they were awful. None of them were true.”

“I don’t know about that.” Peter laughs dryly, a sound unlike anything Tony has ever heard in Peter’s voice before. “I mean, I liked it.” 

Tony’s blood turns to ice.

His jaw opens. Closes again. “That’s,” he starts. “Your body reacts to— stimuli, sometimes. It’s not—”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Peter. His fists are clenched tight in the cushion of the couch, knuckles white, fabric on the verge of tearing. “I know that. But I— I _wanted_ it. Because he looked like you, and because I wanted _you._ I thought that, if it was any other situation, if you’d maybe— asked first, or taken me out to dinner or something, I would’ve—” His voice breaks. 

The sob that he lets out as he buries his face in his hands rips Tony’s heart open, along with the realization that Peter— Peter had these feelings for him, and he’d held them close to his heart, and his attacker had taken them and turned them into a vehicle for guilt and shame. It was the absolute worst possible way to learn that Peter felt the same way Tony did. 

Tony reaches out, feeling like every possible course of action is slipping through his fingers like quicksand. He’s afraid to touch Peter, afraid what memories might surface. And he’s at a complete loss for what to say. 

“Peter, no,” says Tony, voice breaking. “None of that matters. It doesn’t matter how you felt about me, before— you didn’t deserve any of it. He had no fucking right to do that to you.” 

Peter lets out a helpless noise. 

“This doesn’t change what I think of you, Peter. You have to know that. You’re amazing, and compassionate, and the bravest person I’ve had the privilege to know.”

Peter’s shoulders sag. He swipes his hands across his face and lowers his hands. He looks at Tony, silent and hopeful, wanting to believe. Instinctively, Tony scooches closer to him on the couch. His hand presses, gently, against Peter’s back. 

“Is this okay?” he says.

Peter nods. 

Tony rubs circles into Peter’s shoulder, until their shaking subsides. He thinks about how best to put what he’s feeling into words, how to make Peter understand without pushing his boundaries. He’s seen Peter, unwillingly, at a vulnerable moment— maybe this is the only way he can begin to even out the playing field. 

“Remember those five years when you were gone?” Tony stops abruptly. “Wow, look at me bringing up the time you died. I’m doing great at this already. I don’t know how you ever looked at me and thought, _man, this guy really knows what he’s doing.”_

Peter huffs out something akin to a laugh. He shakes his head. 

“Anyway, as I was saying—” Tony sighs. “I was a mess, kid. You have no idea. I had nightmares about you turning to dust in my arms. About not being able to save you. I guess it’s not too different from how I feel right now. But, point is, I’d given up. And then five years later, Steve and Ant Guy showed up at my door and said, _hey, Tony, we need you to invent time travel_ , and I told them to fuck off. My hero days were over. They ended when I couldn’t save the one person who mattered most.” 

Peter looks up at Tony. His eyes are watery, his lips held taut in a tight line. 

“You know what changed my mind, in the end? I saw a picture of the two of us, holding the Stark internship certificate. Something I kept around, all those years. We were commemorating the end of something fake, something we made up to cover up Spider-Man. But your smile was real. You were _happy_ to be there, doing something as silly as giving me bunny ears behind my back, and laughing when I did the same to you. When I looked at that photo, I thought— there’s no way in hell I can give up on seeing that smile again.”

Tears roll down Peter’s cheeks. Tony reaches up to swipe them away gently, and keeps his hand there, cupping the side of Peter’s face. 

“That’s all I want, kid. All I wanted. I moved the universe so I could see you smile again. I’m sorry that all I ever do is make you cry.” 

Peter shakes his head vehemently, tears still streaming down his face. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, and takes Tony’s hand in his own. “That’s not true, Mr. Stark. You _do_ make me happy. Even just being here right now— this is the happiest I’ve been in weeks.” 

_“This_ is the happiest you’ve been in weeks? I don’t like the sound of that.” Tony raises his eyebrows, gesturing to Peter’s crying face. Peter gives a small laugh.

“Okay, maybe I don’t look like it right now,” says Peter. “But it’s true. I mean it, Mr. Stark. You’re like, one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. And that’s not going to change. I don’t want that to change. I want— I want us to be normal again. Do you think we can do that?”

Tony draws Peter closer to him, holding him tight. “Of course, kid,” he says. “Anything. I’ll do anything for you, I mean it.” 

He holds Peter there for a few minutes, until the shaking in Peter’s shoulders subsides. Eventually, Peter pulls himself away from Tony’s grasp, wipes the back of his hand over his face, and takes a deep breath.

“I’m okay now,” says Peter. “Really, I’m good. I think maybe you should get back to the scholarship night. It’d be pretty bad for PR if you just skipped out on it.”

And here Peter was, still thinking about Tony’s well-being when that was the least of what mattered right now. There was nothing, nothing in the universe, that Tony could do to begin to deserve Peter in his life. But he was damn well going to try. 

“Believe me, kid, I’ve done far worse than this for my PR.” says Tony with a wry chuckle. “Besides, it’s been ages, and we’ve finally got a chance to hang out. What do you say? I’ll order us some food, and you can pick out a movie.” He pauses. “Unless you want to be alone?”

Peter shakes his head so fast that Tony can’t help but smile to himself. “I missed you,” he says, resting a head against Tony’s shoulder. Tony reaches up, as slow as he can so as not to disturb the fragility of the moment, and cards his hands softly through Peter’s hair. Peter doesn’t move away, and the soft noise of contentment that he lets out means more to Tony than he can put into words.

“Ugh, I’ll never hear the end of it from Flash,” says Peter. “He was so excited to meet Tony Stark. I think the only superhero he likes more than Iron Man is Spider-Man. I’ll have to pay him a visit in my suit sometime.” He chuckles, and Tony’s heart swells in his chest at the light, familiar sound of it. And he was infinitely glad that the recent events hadn’t thrown a wrench in Peter’s desire to keep being the hero that he was.

“Yeah?” says Tony. “I think he and I would get along. Spider-Man's my favourite, too.” 

Peter lifts his head to smile up at Tony, a real, wide smile, and Tony is so relieved he could cry. The hole in his chest, a gaping crevice that’s only widened in the past few weeks, is finally starting to be patched up and put back together. For the first time, he thinks that maybe they really will be okay.

There are still a lot of things they have to deal with from here on out. They’ll have to make use of that mandated therapist they hired for the Avengers, a service they never use but probably should. And then there’s the attraction to Peter that Tony’s been trying to suppress for ages. That’s not gone, and it’s not going anywhere. If anything, it might be worse now that he knows for sure it’s not one-sided. And he suspects that, given their earlier conversation, Peter might have picked up on that too. But it’ll take some time before he and Peter are ready to have that conversation. Until then, Tony’s just happy to have Peter at his side again while they build themselves, and each other, back together.


End file.
